


Losing Control

by strange_h3arts



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Silva, Angst, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_h3arts/pseuds/strange_h3arts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silva is incredibly persistent and James isn't sure if he can resist... an alternate version of THE SCENE</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Control

“…Well, everyone needs a hobby.”

 Bond smirks: these words are a challenge.

Silva’s face momentarily tightens, betraying carefully concealed hatred. He rocks back on one heel and then stamps forward again, schooling his features into a calm expression. “So what’s yours?”

“ _Resurrection_.”

Silva exhales sharply, his face unreadable. He abruptly turns on one heel and begins to walk away, motioning for Bond to follow with a lazy wave of his hand. “Let me show you something.”

Bond rises and trails behind the other man, noting the casual fluidity of Silva’s steps. Silva leads them out of the warehouse and into the sun, the bright light illuminating his blonde hair to milky whiteness. The air is cool and smells like the South China Sea.

Bond watches as Silva turns to his bodyguards, dismissing them with a curt nod. “Leave us.”

When the thugs leave and they are alone, Silva edges closer to Bond and takes his arm in a strange, chivalrous gesture. Bond stiffens involuntarily, provoking a satisfied smile from the other man.

“James, James. Don’t act so _nervous_ ,” Silva purrs in Bond’s ear, his breath warm and sweet. In one swift movement he steps in front of the agent so that their bodies are almost pressed flush together, reaching out a calloused hand to stroke Bond’s neck.

“ _Tempting_ ,” Silva whispers, his eyes almost black even in the sunlight. Bond’s hand twitches for the Walther in his breast pocket, but Silva deftly grabs his wrist and squeezes it lightly: a warning.

“Relax, James,” he chides, shaking his head patronizingly. Grinning, Silva pulls his sport coat aside side to reveal several grenades stitched into the silk lining. “Don’t want to… _blow_ things out of proportion.”

Bond drops his hand, and Silva pats him on the shoulder like a dog.

“Now, where were we?” The blonde cyberterrorist takes Bond’s arm again and steers him in the direction of a crumbling high-rise, its once-bright neon lettering shining dully in the sun.

“This is my home,” Silva says grandly, ushering Bond inside before him like the perfect host. “It was once a hotel, but I’ve converted most of the rooms to suit my different needs.”

Bond follows Silva across the cracked marble floor and towards a defunct-looking elevator, a look of surprise briefly flitting across his face when the doors open smoothly.

“Still works! Impressive, no?” Silva notes happily, leading Bond inside with a bounce in his step. “To think that it’s been ten years since the island was evacuated... It seems like yesterday, really. I remember it perfectly- there was absolute chaos.” He chuckles at the thought. “The people were panicking, not knowing what to take or leave behind. Hilarious to watch.”

“Yes, hilarious,” Bond quips drily, shooting the other man a mistrusting glance from the side. Silva, as usual, is completely unruffled: he stands with his hands clasped at his front, a deceptively docile smile plastered on his face. There is not a single wrinkle on his clothes.

They ride the elevator up in silence, and Bond feels Silva’s eyes on him the whole time.

The lift stops at the 16th floor, and Silva purposefully brushes his body against Bond’s as he exits. Silva is warm, and a cool exhale of breath on Bond’s neck makes the agent’s hairs stand on end as the other man slips past him.

Silva leads him down the hall, his steps languorous yet precise. They stop in front of room 1606, the dark oaken door a stark contrast to the outdated floral wallpaper.

Silva waves a hand in front of a sensor and the lock unlatches with a soft click. Pushing the door open wide, he nudges Bond to go in first. “Don’t be shy.”

The agent obliges, if somewhat hesitantly. It’s a suite, with light blue walls and cream carpeting that doesn’t exactly match the rest of the décor. It feels empty, sterile, and Bond doesn’t like it.

Bond hears the door click shut and then Silva is standing behind him, their bodies almost touching.

“This is where I do much of my work,” Silva murmurs, tilting his head towards a plain mahogany desk with a dormant laptop computer resting on top. Bond doesn’t recognize the model, and then he realizes that Silva probably made it himself. “I know this seems rather bare to you- you are a man of refined tastes, yes? But I prefer the simplicity. There is nothing… superfluous in my life.” 

Bond can feel Silva move closer behind him, the other man’s body heat registering on his skin. The cyberterrorist sighs, and Bond can smell the warm, spicy notes of his cologne as the man’s breath washes over the nape of his neck.

“You said you were in Station H. So what made you leave MI6?” The question is calculated, intended as a distraction as Bond registers Silva’s arm possessively snaking around his waist.

Silva throws back his head and barks out a short laugh, the sound echoing loud and manic in the small space. He steps away from Bond and the agent relaxes slightly, freed from the unwelcome touch.

“James. After this many years in the game, can you really be so naïve?” Silva shifts into Bond’s line of sight and then walks to the window, looking out on his ruined kingdom with a far-away smile on his face.

“I left MI6 because _she_ betrayed me. Much as she betrayed you when she ordered that girl to shoot you in Istanbul, hmm?” Silva turns to face him, and his smile has momentarily corroded into something bitter.

Bond decides to press on, if against his better judgment. “What do you mean, _betrayed you_?”

Silva’s face is composed again, and he chuckles drily. “James. _James._ Let’s save that story for another time.”

He swiftly crosses the floor to stand in front of Bond, his eyes dark- whether it’s from hate or arousal, Bond can’t tell which. Silva reaches out a tentative hand to caress Bond’s jaw, the agent’s skin breaking out in goosebumps at the lightness of the touch.

Silva begins to lean in, and for a moment Bond is paralyzed. Slowly, almost tenderly, Silva closes the gap between their lips, his mouth warm and full against Bond’s own. The kiss is dry; almost sweet, and Bond feels himself involuntarily leaning into the touch as the other man wraps a gentle arm around his waist.

Then the agent’s reflexes take over, and in a fraction of a second he has Silva by his throat. Silva grins widely despite the hand crushing his windpipe, his eyes bright with excitement. He looks… impressed, almost. And then suddenly he slips out of Bond’s grip with unexpected agility, grabbing Bond’s shoulders roughly and twisting the agent around to press him bodily to his own chest. Silva’s arm is holding Bond’s neck in an iron chokehold, and somehow a steel switchblade has materialized in his right hand. He presses the tip to Bond’s jugular, and Bond can feel a laugh rumble up from the other man’s chest.

“Do you surrender, Mr. Bond?” Silva whispers hoarsely, grazing his lips along the crown of Bond’s head as he drags the switchblade lightly over the agent’s throat.

Bond sags in his grip, his face flushing with chagrin. Silva takes his silence as defeat and releases Bond’s neck, catching the tiny drop of blood on the agent’s throat with the pad of his thumb.

“Now,” Silva purrs in Bond’s ear, his breathing imperceptibly quickened, “come quietly, and I won’t kill you.”

Bond’s mind races as he attempts to find a way out of this situation, but there is none. He turns to face Silva, his pale blue eyes steely in the afternoon light.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with,” he says shortly, provoking an amused smirk from his captor. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I can promise you that whatever it is, I’m not giving it to you.”

A lewd grin creeps across the cyberterrorist’s face. “Mr. Bond, always so _certain_ of yourself… Let’s not be so sure about that, hmm?” Silva wraps a strong arm around Bond’s back, drawing the agent’s stiffened body closer to his own.

“I can make you come apart, you know,” Silva murmurs, reaching to unbutton Bond’s shirt for the second time that day. “But the question is, will I be so generous?” Silva dips his head into the crook of Bond’s neck and inhales deeply, sighing at the clean smell of soap and English leather. His full lips rest on Bond’s throat, causing the agent to shiver despite his best intentions.

“You see,” Silva continues softly, working his way up Bond’s neck to nibble the shell of his ear, “your body will betray you, James. Just wait… and… relax.” Silva pulls back suddenly, only to snake a confident hand down to the bulge of Bond’s trousers and gently cup his clothed cock. Bond exhales sharply through his nose, unbidden pleasure flooding his body. Chuckling, Silva presses his body flush against Bond’s and rolls his knee into Bond’s crotch.

Bond grits his teeth and curses inwardly as he feels himself getting hard. Silva leans in to capture his mouth in another intoxicating kiss, this time slipping his tongue between Bond’s lips to skillfully brush against the agent’s own. Silva’s mouth is hot and sweet, and Bond feels his defenses dropping. He imagines Silva’s lips on his cock and quickly pushes the idea out of his mind, chastising himself for his weakness.

Silva grins into the kiss as if he can hear Bond’s thoughts. “Didn’t think you’d give up this easily,” he whispers slyly, and Bond’s entire body stiffens at the words. He’ll be damned if he allows himself to enjoy this.

Bond’s face is stony as Silva takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom, humming to himself. Bond watches as the other man removes his cream-colored blazer, revealing the impeccably fitted dark brown vest and loudly patterned silk shirt beneath. The agent can tell that beneath the clothes the man’s body is lean and muscular, and Silva smiles as he notices Bond’s appraising look.

“Like what you see?” Silva asks conspiratorially, his face utterly confident. He strolls over to his quarry and hesitates for a moment, nodding slowly as if deciding what to do next.

Suddenly seizing Bond by the shoulders, Silva forcefully pushes the agent into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and then straddles him, his erection straining against the inseam of his perfectly tailored trousers as he situates himself on Bond’s lap.

“Bond. James Bond,” Silva chuckles, making short work of the remaining buttons on Bond’s shirt. “I knew it would end up this way.” He deftly slips the sleeves down Bond’s arms and then tosses the shirt to the side, leaving the agent’s chiseled chest and stomach exposed.

Bond exhales sharply in surprise as Silva shoves him down onto his back, climbing atop his chest in a gesture that reeks of dominance. Grinning widely, the cyberterrorist lowers his head and begins to leave a trail of kisses along Bond’s chest, pausing to suck roughly on his darkening nipples. Bond squirms beneath him, trying valiantly to ignore the shocks of pleasure slicing down to his groin.

Suddenly Silva darts out two fingers and presses down hard on a pressure point in the crook of Bond’s elbow, causing the agent to yelp and involuntarily jerk the limb upwards. Silva easily catches Bond’s arm with one hand, and with the other deftly clicks a pair of handcuffs onto Bond’s wrist.

“Can’t have you going anywhere, can I?” Silva murmurs in a sing-song voice, fastening the cuff to the headboard of the bed. Bond thrashes violently beneath him, but the cuff restricts his movement and he realizes that he’s helpless. All he can do is fix Silva with a baleful stare as the man fastens a second restraint on his other wrist, his eyes full of hatred.

“Don’t be so proud, James,” Silva chides, cocking an eyebrow playfully. “You might even enjoy yourself…”

Bond snorts, rolling his eyes. “If you think I’m enjoying myself, you’ve got another thing comi-- ” His words are interrupted with a groan as Silva’s hand deftly encircles his half-hard cock, squeezing lightly.

Silva leans in to whisper in Bond’s ear, a lock of bleached hair brushing against the agent’s face. “You talk too much.” He chuckles darkly at his own comment and busies himself with unbuttoning Bond’s trousers, pulling down the zipper and shucking the fabric aside to reveal the outline of Bond’s manhood straining at the seam of his briefs.

“Hmm,” Silva hums appreciatively, stroking the bulge with one deft finger and smirking as Bond twitches beneath him. “Let’s see what we have here, shall we?”

Bond closes his eyes and tries to think of anything other than sex as Silva slowly pulls down his briefs, exposing the agent’s still-hardening erection.

“Not bad, Mr. Bond,” the cyberterrorist comments, the slight roughness in his voice betraying his own arousal. Bond shudders as he sees the other man’s tongue dart out to moisten his full lips.

“But what to do? What to do…” Silva muses, his brow furrowing as he appraises Bond’s manhood.

Suddenly the switchblade is back in his hand, and Bond’s blood runs cold. Silva bounces the knife in his palm, the blade sliding out with a soft _snick_ of metal.

Silva carefully drags the point across the tip of Bond’s cock, the agent fighting every reflex in his body to jerk away. “Should I... give you something to remember me by?”

Smiling, he scrapes the edge along the length of Bond’s erection, a hair-thin line of blood forming at the base. Bond hisses, his pupils blown wide with fear. “You won’t do it,” the agent spits, his voice full of venom.

Silva throws his head back and laughs hollowly. “Oh? Are you so sure about that?” He presses the knife blade slightly harder into Bond’s flesh. “Of course, there _are_ ways that you could convince me out of it…” He trails off, leaving Bond to decipher the implication of his words.

“And what might that be?” Bond rasps, shuddering as the cold metal slides across his most vulnerable area.

Silva grins slyly, his dark eyes bottomless as he chooses his next words. “I do not want to harm you, Mr. Bond. I only wish to make you… my own.”

Bond swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. There is only one way out of this, and he knows it. “Then do it.”

For a moment Silva is still, weighting the sincerity of Bond’s words. Finally he removes the knife and slips it back in his pocket, Bond sagging bonelessly beneath him. To the agent’s shame, Bond is still achingly hard.

“Now, where were we?” Silva murmurs, lowering his heavy-lidded eyes to Bond’s straining cock. Deftly he wraps four fingers around the base and grips it lightly, pulling his fist up the shaft with practiced ease. Bond grits his teeth, resisting the urge to buck into the touch. _Control. This is all about control._

Silva lazily strokes a hand up and down Bond’s cock, his face set in an expression of strange contentment. For a moment Bond thinks that this is all Silva wants from him, and if so, it’s a little anticlimactic. But from the bulge in the other man’s pants, Bond can imagine that Silva is most likely getting off on this as much as he is.

After a few minutes, Bond decides to turn the tables. He cocks an eyebrow and stares challengingly at Silva, trying to appear nonchalant. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Silva abruptly lets go of his cock, pressing a hand to his chest in mock scandal. “James! You continue to surprise me.” Bond imagines that a flicker of disappointment crosses the cyberterrorist’s face, perhaps a reaction to the agent’s sudden change in tactic. For a moment, Bond thinks he’s gained the upper hand.

Then Silva’s features morph into a slow, lewd grin, and Bond shivers lightly despite himself. “But if you insist…”

Silva athletically slips off the bed and, reaches in his bedside table drawer for a condom and, after a brief pause, a container of lube. He thumbs the bottle cap absentmindedly, turning to rake his eyes critically over the agent’s naked body.

“Are you partial to a little pain, Mr. Bond?” Silva asks, the manic glint in his eyes belying the casual tone of his question. “If so, I’d be happy to oblige… as would any good host, yes?”

Bond stiffens as he imagines the implications of Silva’s words, and the other man chuckles.

“Relax. Today I’m feeling… generous,” Silva continues with after drawing out the suspense, smirking at the captive agent’s obvious relief. Without pausing, he deftly removes his shoes and unzips his trousers, letting them fall to the ground at his feet. Silva chuckles as Bond’s eyes widen at the impressive sight of his rock-hard cock straining against the confines of his thin cotton briefs, shrugging in a show of faux modesty.

Silva’s hands move to the collar of his shirt as if to unbutton it, but after a moment of deliberation he drops them down to the waistband of his underwear instead. Bond wonders why, but Silva’s face is neutral and offers no hint to his motivation.

Taking his time, Silva slowly pulls down his briefs, sighing as the cool air hits his painfully hard erection. Bond swallows as he takes in Silva’s thickly veined length, the darkening tip shiny with pre-come.

His eyes dark with arousal, Silva climbs on the bed to straddle Bond again, the agent gasping as the other man’s cock brushes against his own. Silva tears open the condom packet with his teeth, wrapping a firm hand around Bond’s erection and tugging lightly. Bond lets out a stifled groan, the experienced touch sending stars of pleasure across his vision.

Then to Bond’s surprise, Silva rolls the condom over the agent’s own cock, smirking as the man bucks beneath him. “Not what you were expecting?” he goads, opening the bottle of lube and pouring a generous amount over Bond’s twitching length.

Silva makes short work of preparing himself- the thought of Bond buried deep inside of him is almost enough on its own.

Bond tenses in anticipation as Silva situates himself above his length, pausing for a moment as if he is still making up his mind. And then with a laugh Silva sinks down and takes him all, and for a moment Bond’s mind goes blank with senseless pleasure. Silva is smooth and tight and it’s _good_ , so good, even though it shouldn’t be. The agent moans roughly and ruts up into the other man’s heat, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as he sees the other man shiver with pleasure. Bond wonders if Silva will come apart before he does.

Silva closes his eyes and breathes out sharply through his nose, clenching himself tightly around Bond’s cock as he takes the agent’s full length again and again. Bond registers the foreign feeling of Silva’s cock rubbing against his stomach, and he knows that he should feel disgusted but at this point he can’t form a single coherent thought. 

“What do you say to this, Mr. Bond?” Silva pants, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Bond ignores him, although the agent can’t help but hiss when the cyberterrorist reaches down a swift hand to roughly pinch his nipple.

Silva grins widely as he feels Bond jerk beneath him, knowing that the agent is rapidly nearing release. 

And then, he withdraws Bond’s length completely from his body, ignoring the disappointing feeling of emptiness that follows. Silva chuckles as Bond shudders beneath him, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Do you concede, Mr. Bond?” Silva rasps, hovering just above the tip of Bond’s cock as the agent thrusts in vain beneath him. Bond clenches his jaw and whimpers at the sudden lack of sensation, his cock pulsing wildly. He hesitates.

Then Silva’s expression turns dark and he begins to pull away, the warmth of his body heat receding. Bond realizes that the man won’t hesitate to leave him unfulfilled, and the thought is almost too much to bear.

His erection aching unbearably, Bond shuts his eyes tightly and gives in. “Yes,” he whispers, the sound almost inaudible- _almost._

He hears Silva chuckle above him, pleased, and in that moment Bond knows that Silva will always be on top, even if he’s on the bottom. “I thought so.”

And then Silva sinks down on him again, and Bond loses it. The tight heat of the other man’s body is unbearable, and the agent grits out a strangled moan as Silva clenches around his length. “ _Ven_ , James. _Ven_ ,” Silva murmurs hoarsely, reaching out a deft hand to press on the shrapnel scar that graces Bond’s shoulder. It hurts, but the pain mingles with pleasure and Bond isn’t sure if he can distinguish them anymore. Breathing harshly, Silva throws back his head, exposing the sculpted curve of his jaw and neckline, and in the waning afternoon light he looks almost beautiful.

Bond feels the familiar tightening in his balls and then he’s coming, coming so hard that it’s almost painful. His vision goes black at the edges and he lets out a strangled shout as Silva clenches erratically around his wildly pulsing cock, scraping sharp fingernails down the agent’s chest.

From his post-climactic haze, Bond hears Silva groan with pleasure and feels the man shudder deeply, hot ropes of his release spilling thickly over the agent’s chest. Silva pitches forward and narrowly stops himself from collapsing on Bond’s torso, his chest heaving with exertion.

Silva lets out a soft moan as he slips Bond’s length out of himself, the agent’s cock still half-hard and twitching. This is the first time Bond has seen him look anything but completely composed: his bleached blonde hair hangs disheveled in his face, and his close-fitting vest is wrinkled beyond repair.

For a moment they sit in silence. Then to Bond’s surprise, Silva reclines on the bed next to him, ghosting a hand over the scars on his chest. Bond doesn’t quite know what to say.

Silva strokes Bond’s cheek with a gentle hand, his eyes almost tender. His full lips part slightly, twitching upwards at the corners, and for a moment Bond can see a glimmer of the man he used to be.

And then Silva’s face twists into a slow, Chesire cat-grin and it’s gone. _Jekyll and Hyde,_ Bond thinks to himself.

“Who would’ve thought… the great James Bond,” Silva whispers slyly, leaning in to brush his full lips against Bond’s neck. “I feel quite honored.”

Bond won’t look him in the eye. He knows when he’s been beaten.

\--


End file.
